


Sweetener

by thebicolouredhydra



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 16:49:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14622984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebicolouredhydra/pseuds/thebicolouredhydra
Summary: Sniper's keen on trying an experiment but he'd rather no-one else knew.





	Sweetener

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short one from me focusing on the urban myth that pineapple juice... uh... "sweetens the deal".

It was a good idea. Yes. A good idea. He just had to keep telling himself that with each step he took towards the Px lest he lose his nerve, unfold the paper clenched tightly in his fist and scrub out that one request that’d give him away. And even if Soldier did clue in to what Sniper was doing, the embarrassment would surely only be momentary, and that was nothing balanced against what he’d gain in the long run.

His step faltered briefly midway across the compound when he remembered that Soldier was probably as far from discreet a person as anyone could find on the base, with the possible exception of Scout. He’d likely bring up the topic of Sniper’s unusual supply request halfway through dinner in front of everyone and cause all manner of awkwardness. Sniper hated attention being drawn to him at the best of times, but this would not only be mortifying, it would also hint at something he’d prefer to be kept private, and Soldier seemed to harbour an uncanny knack for asking precisely the wrong question at exactly the worst moment.

However, the thought of the payoff got Sniper’s legs moving again. He’d take any increased opportunity to get his lover’s mouth on him, or rather around him, and whilst they were hardly stingy in that regard, Sniper felt it was good manners to make it as enjoyable as possible for everyone involved. A faint heat spread across his cheekbones. Selfishness did have a great deal to do with it, he had to admit, but so what? He’d be willing to take the risk on anecdotal evidence if it meant an eager mouth on an even more eager part of his body.

He sped up slightly as he neared the squat wooden shed with its function stamped above the lintel in Soldier’s bold yet surprisingly neat and careful handwriting. _‘This was going to be awkward, so just get in there, get it done, and get out’_ , he told himself tersely, tightening his jaw.

Sniper didn’t know at what point Soldier had commandeered this particular function as being under his personal jurisdiction, but given that everyone else was too lazy to take it upon themselves, they all considered it a fraction better than the red-tape-choked, form-filling, paper-filing nightmare that it had been before Soldier had hoisted up his khaki trousers and taken charge. There were a few rocky moments early on, but as time had passed, the American had actually proved to be very adept at managing to fulfil all sorts of supply requests. Provided that you filled out all the right forms, neatly. Provided that you could convince him that you really did need what you were asking for. Provided that he was in a good mood and not on one of his patriotic streaks that involved shouting about wastefulness and lily-liveredness (whatever the fuck that was) and how all an army man needed was his gun, his uniform and a tin of beans.

But given that the Administrator would flip her wig if he went off the base without permission, plus the uncertainty that the nearest general store would actually stock what he needed, Sniper felt this really was his only option. He ground his teeth together, steeling himself for the ensuing and assured shit-fight that he was about to encounter, and pushed the door open. He stopped dead in his tracks as the unmistakable, rusty chortle of the Soldier bloomed in his face. _‘Jesus Christ, he already knows!’_ Sniper thought, instantly and irrationally. It took him a few moments to adjust his eyesight to the darkened interior, before he realised that Soldier’s mirth hadn’t been directed at him, but at the figure sitting on the far left of the counter, boots on the seat of the rickety wooden chair people were ordered to sit in whilst waiting for their supply order to be filled, guitar resting on one knee.

“Slim.”

Sniper’s heart sank. “Truckie.”

The Engineer feigned a hurt expression. “Y’ don’t seem pleased to see me.”

“No, it aint that,” Sniper hurried to tell him. “I just...uh… wasn’t expectin’ anyone else to be here.”

“In or out, private,” Soldier barked loudly. “You’re letting in a draft!”

Sniper sighed. In for a penny… “I need some… stuff,” he began vaguely, and uncrumpled the slightly sweaty scrunch of paper clenched in his fist.

Soldier pushed himself upright from where he’d been leaning on the counter and beckoned Sniper over with two fingers, chewing one of those revolting stogies he insisted on smoking from one corner of his mouth to the other. The creased paper was snapped out of the Sniper’s fingers.

“George Washington, your handwriting is a disgrace, private!” Soldier bellowed, squinting at the list.

“Hey, enough with the ‘private’, mate, you know perfectly well I was a lieutenant!” Sniper retorted, hackles rising.

“Not in _this_ man’s army,” Soldier pointed out, stabbing a large, blunt finger down on to the surface of the counter for emphasis.

“Sol, just give him the forms,” Engineer suggested gently and quietly, seemingly absorbed in some silent fretwork. Soldier grunted, but leaned down under the counter for the dreaded paperwork.

Because you couldn’t fill out the forms _beforehand_ , oh no, that would’ve been too simple. You had to come into the Px and fill them out. Right in front of Soldier. While he was staring at you. Making comments about how messy your handwriting was and how you should be using all capital letters and why weren’t you writing on the damned line that’s what it’s there for after all and by Abe Lincoln’s beard now you’ve made a blot and you’re gonna have to fill out all the forms again, private!

“I can’t do this while y’ gawkin’ at me!” Sniper complained in a slightly slurred voice, the end of one of the arms of his aviators stuck between his teeth because he couldn’t see the forms clearly when he had them on.

“Are my eyeballs too powerful for your dainty un-American hands?” Soldier grated out at him, hands folded across his chest so his biceps bulged to about twice their normal size under the short sleeves of his shirt. Sniper couldn’t even see Soldier’s eyes, hidden as they were under that ridiculous helmet he insisted on wearing 24-7, which was probably for the best since the man tended to get a funny and unnerving look in his eye that Demo proclaimed was jingoism.

“Why do you only have one lightbulb in this damn place?” Sniper muttered, squinting at his triplicate forms while he carefully and painfully printed out his list in the appropriate spaces. “It’s like a fuckin’ interrogation room in here.” He pushed his akubra back on his head so the brim stopped casting a shadow on the page under his hand.

“You watch your language or you’ll get diddly-squat, son!”

_Son!_ Sniper was sure he was at least five years older than Soldier, probably more, but maybe the man was actually ten years older but had deemed it disloyal to age while in uniform. Sniper tutted and tried to focus on maintaining his temper as well as satisfactory penmanship, but it was proving a lot harder than he’d hoped if the rivulets of sweat running down the channel of his back were anything to go by.

Engineer, wisely, kept silent, but plucked out a calming tune on his guitar that Sniper wondered might be for his benefit. The Texan usually had a somewhat restraining influence on Soldier that none of the others had managed to achieve. Demo always had the opposite effect, so Sniper considered himself lucky that it wasn’t the Scot in here. But Dell was a lot sharper in the brains department than Soldier - which wasn’t saying much, admittedly - and Sniper was pretty sure that he would put two and two together. Even if he did have the manners of a southern gentleman. With luck, those same manners might forestall the asking of awkward questions.

Other than a slight wobble in his lettering halfway through that made Soldier growl, he managed to complete all three forms. The American spent a worrying amount of time analysing each page for perceived infractions, and Sniper started to panic that he’d spot the out-of-place items. He had three tediously bureaucratic opportunities to do so, after all.

But Soldier gave them his stamp of approval, metaphorically and in reality, making Engineer jump about a foot in the air when he slammed the inked rubber stamp onto the forms with far more gusto than was necessary.

“Heavens to Betsy, Sol! Y’ gonna give me a heart attack, boy!”

“Good for ya!” Soldier shouted as he turned to head back to the storage shelves. “Clean out your pipes!”

Engineer shook his head. “I swear, Slim, he’s gonna make me lose my religion one day.” He frowned at Sniper. “You feelin’ ok? Y’ lookin’ a little sweaty there.”

Sniper tried to avoid Engineer’s singularly penetrating gaze. The man had his dark-lensed goggles pushed up onto his forehead, which he tended to do when the light wasn’t so great. Sniper took the arm of his aviators out of his mouth and stuck them in his pocket clumsily. “I just hate goin’ through this shit, is all,” he muttered. “It’s like doin’ an exam when I ain’t learned the material. He’ll be askin’ for a bloody prostate check next.”

Engineer snuffled a smothered laugh out of his nose and went back to plucking chords on his guitar. “Ah well, it sure is a bit of bother, but it’s his kingdom an’ his rules. Ain’t no-one else steppin’ up to deal with it all.”

Sniper huffed. “Spose.”

This time, Soldier made them both jump by slamming down the cardboard box on the counter-top, contents clattering against each other.

“Fuck me, mate! Ain’t you ever heard of stealth?!”

“Stealth’s for communists,” Soldier announced decisively, chewing on his ratty cigar as he ticked items off the form.

“Is that everything?” Sniper asked, reaching for the box hurriedly.

“Negative,” Soldier blared. “Only got two cans of pineapple juice. You’ll have to wait ‘til next week for the other ten.”

Sniper cringed and tried to ignore the way Engineer’s guitar playing stopped abruptly and how the man’s head turned slowly and inexorably in Sniper’s direction.

“And there’s no fresh milk, only powdered. You want that?”

“Christ, why do I never get the fresh stuff?” Sniper demanded to know. “I hate that powdered shit!”

“Get here before the Russian next time,” Soldier barked at him over his shoulder, retreating back into the shadowy depths of the supply shelves.

Sniper sighed and rolled his eyes. “Can’t you just order in more?”

“How about I boot some Shamrock up your boney ass?” was Soldier’s cheery response from somewhere down the back of the shed.

Engineer was still staring at him. He could see it out of the corner of his eye. Sniper tried to ignore it, but it was like having an ant crawling up your pants’ leg in the midday sun. He drummed his fingers on the countertop, other hand on his hip, attempting, and failing, to look nonchalant.

“Oh god, _what?_ ” he snapped finally, a little harsher than was necessary.

The expression on Engineer’s face never shifted from a perfect study in neutrality. “Y’ on a health kick there, Slim?”

Sniper narrowed his eyes, trying to determine if Engineer was making fun of him. “Nope.”

They stared at each other for an awkward double handful of seconds. Engineer’s gloved fingers resumed picking out a tune on his guitar, but he never broke eye contact. “Twelve cans.” He changed key effortlessly a few times. “Of pineapple juice.” A lyrical strum punctuated his statement.

Sniper’s lips thinned in implicit warning. “What of it?”

“Got a bit of a thirst, huh?”

Sniper pointedly didn’t reply.

“You be careful it doesn’t rot your teeth, now.” Engineer cautioned gently. “Or someone else’s.” He gave the Australian a wink.

“You cheeky bastard,” Sniper muttered, catching the way the corners of Engineer’s mouth turned up ever so slightly. He looked away, shaking his head, as Engineer chuckled.

“Does that even work?”

Sniper shrugged. “I dunno. Guess I’ll find out. Thought I should try, at least.”

“That’s sweet, no pun intended,” Engineer replied, returning his attention to his guitar and pretending not to have seen how red Sniper’s face had gone.

“Hey, Truckie, keep it to y’self, would ya?” Sniper begged in a strained whisper. “I don’t want Uncle Sam and his megaphone mouth honking it around the place.” He jabbed his thumb in Soldier’s direction.

Engineer frowned slightly. “I know the boy’s only got one oar in the water, but he ain’t that dumb, Slim! Maybe y’ shoulda waited until furlough to get your sweetener.”

Sniper saw Soldier heading back to the counter and made a frantic gesture at Engineer to lower his voice, though the man had hardly been shouting.

“Yeah yeah, I won’t say nuthin’,” the Texan assured him, segueing into a jaunty marching tune on his guitar.

“We all done here?” Sniper asked, itching to get as far away as possible before he pushed Engineer and his shit-eating grin backwards off the counter.

Soldier jammed the carton of powdered milk into the cardboard box with the force of a gun blast. “Affirmative.”

“Thank fuck,” Sniper said under his breath and hoisted the box off the counter.

“Oh and private?” Soldier’s window-shattering voice stopped him with his hand on the door. “You let me know if that juice thing works. Wouldn’t mind trying it myself. I hear the ladies love a bit of sugar with their cream.”

Sniper fled across the compound with Engineer’s laugh ringing in his burning ears.


End file.
